But there is hope for my royal love Of the golden long ago; Beyond the broad and shining sea Gathers a stubborn chivalry, That yet will come to make her free, And hedge her round with gleaming spears, And crown her queen of all the years, My own love, my royal love, Of the golden long ago. MUSIC MAGIC BY EDMUND LEAMY _Perhaps there is no magic in this dull old world of ours; Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours; Perhaps there is no beauty, and perhaps all things are wrong; But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_ A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune, Stood in the street of the city, there, in the heat of the noon; Banging of roses and sunshine, thrilling of lands far away, Whispering songs of my childhood,--sorrowful, simple and gay; I was a child for a moment, filled with a child’s petty fears, Dreaming, and dreaming, and dreaming, never a thought of the tears. Then as the music softened, singing of love and of life, Brought it back thought of the old days, far from the toil and the strife, Glimmer of gold in the star-light, shimmer of silk by the sea; Words that were whispered, half-spoken, dreams that were never to be. Sweet intermingled with sadness, what is as dear as the past? Is there a day in the future that is as fair as the last? Music, oh, music the master, there in the heat of the noon, A squeaking and battered old organ, rattling a moss-covered tune, Carried me back in my dreaming, far, to the long, long ago; Feeling, ’way down in my heart-chords, hope I thought never could glow; Brought to me, who was a failure, beaten and crossed in the fight, Help in the hour of the darkness--pointed the way to the light. _Perhaps there is no magic in this dull, old world of ours; Perhaps there are no Fairy Tales to gladden heart-break hours; Perhaps there is no beauty and perhaps all things are wrong; But still there is the wonder of a little, old-time song!_ GETHSEMANE BY EDMUND LEAMY Breathes there a man who claimeth not One lonely spot, His own Gethsemane, Whither with his inmost pain He fain Would weary plod, Find the surcease that is known In wind a-moan And sobbing sea, Cry his sorrow hid of men, And then-- Touch hands with God. MY LIPS WOULD SING---- BY EDMUND LEAMY My lips would sing a song for you, a soulful little song for you, A plaintive little song for you, upon a summer’s day; But for the very life of me, the merry, merry life of me, The laughter-loving life of me, I cannot but be gay.